The Pile of Write

Some women are born with eyes in the back of their head; that was where my gram kept her heart. She loved you most when she was walking away.

A King has no time for deipnophobic

There are many meals to eat           (The Spaniard liked fresh lampron) & maids to greet          (The Witch had hind at Hampton) wives to be had          (The Rose ate from his own dish) & wives to behead          (The German ate salted fish) some for breakfast          (The Child loved her sweet jelly) & others for bed          (The Widow ate pork belly)

And, with every meal they ate an ordered side of heir looms Too oft replied by empty plate Creating the hangriest of grooms

so much depends upon 

an open umbrella

held aloft against rain 

My dog is named for Tantalus. Her appetite never sating. 9/10 when you look at her, She‘ll be a ruminating.

I carried rescue In my hand for one quick moment It wasn’t sand I saw the world And wrestled with infinity

My Pyrrhic victory the tedium of eternity I lost my sand of time became this granular complaint this iota of augury a discarded prophecy a mote; an agony; a taint

Synaesthetic is bad Macrosmatic is worse The two of them together is a god damn curse

Your sadness smells like lollipops & sighs of summer shandy Your laughter smells of pistachios & chortles - cotton candy

I defy the sun; I will not go where he alights I page, page forth the dying of the lights

I, being born a woman self possessed With all the seeds and potions of my kind, Will purged by my soliloquy do bind Your person bare, and feel a certain jest To bully your body's fate unto my wrest: So surely is your doom of life resigned, Still the pulse and shroud the mind, And leave you once again undone, declined. Think on this fair punishment for treason To send clout blood against your flagging brain, You shall be remembered with just disseisin My scorn without pity, —let me make it plain: I find your years too lengthy a season And, aim to shear your reign